


just like birds of a feather we'll fly

by WingsOfTime



Series: roza [24]
Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Comfort, Depression, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, brief implied pet death, doing exciting things together like taking a Bath and Sleeping, self-care day except administered by trahearne, self-criticism, set background icebrood saga so worldbuilding spoilers, this isn't super shippy but it is very Loving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:08:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28272147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: Roza is having one of those days where even getting out of bed is the most arduous chore. Trahearne helps.
Relationships: Trahearne/Male Player Character (Guild Wars)
Series: roza [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1252070
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24





	just like birds of a feather we'll fly

**Author's Note:**

> needed something sweet and fluffy after the last one! also YEs i named it after a song lyric. dont judge me

The afterlife isn’t so bad after all.

The Mists are very… diverse, to use an encompassing term. Some places yawn so widely and dip so deeply that it feels as if they end only in eternity, and others are stretched so thin it is little wonder nothing complete dwells in them. Trahearne has been to realms deep and shallow both, and has discovered one thing they have in common: the temptation they bleed, the _lull_ in the air. He can never stay for long.

Some souls become lost forever because they stray where they don’t belong, Aurene tells him with a voice that is both young and ancient. Even she cannot recover them. So Trahearne should stay near his stolen house, or her Champion Roza will be upset.

Trahearne is torn between being amused at her reasoning and a little miffed, although the thought of Roza pacing and squeezing his branches in that stressed way he does softens his dead soul. Fine, he agrees, he will stick to the more well-travelled paths. He has met an ex-Pact soldier or two on them in the past, after all, and he appreciates the opportunity to socialize.

“Spotty, like, _hated_ cats,” Gretchen is saying one day, or possibly night. Trahearne is nodding along absently, having long since learned that it is best to simply stay silent and wait for her to finish.

“ _Meeewr,_ ” says someone who is distinctively not Gretchen, and also on the ground.

Trahearne looks down. He gasps. No, it can’t be. Except… yes, those grey stripes and that puffy tail are achingly familiar. The cat they belong to certainly seems to think _he_ is familiar.

“Oh _no_ , Harley,” he croons, kneeling down. She mewls at him and he scoops her up, burying his face in her fur.

She feels the exact same as she had back when they were both alive. Pale Mother, she even _smells_ the same, a deep inhale confirms. Trahearne could cry.

“My Champion Roza mentioned her… untimely passing,” rumbles a nearby rock. Trahearne squeezes his cat.

“ _Thank_ you,” he says earnestly.

Harley is a welcome addition to his small household. She doesn’t run off and worry him like Gretchen does, she somehow still manages to bring him small, skittering dead creatures (he doesn’t even want to think about how that works), and, most importantly, she shoves herself into his face at the most inconvenient times and ignores him whenever he wants her company. Trahearne could not ask for a better gift for his eternity.

He is busy trying to fashion a little bed for her—she still seems to like sleeping most of the day away—when his leaves prick up from their stems. He hears the familiar sound of a portal manifesting from behind him, and turns around with a smile.

It drops off when Roza staggers through, teetering unsteadily on his feet. Trahearne is up in an instant, reaching out to steady him.

Sharp fingers stab into his forearms like needles as Roza balances himself, then peers up at him. Pale Mother, he looks exhausted _._ His bark is withered and his eyes sunken, and his foliage is drooping limply from his branches. Trahearne is debating how best to drag him upstairs and blackmail him into going to sleep when he opens his mouth to speak.

“I’m not _sick_ ,” is what he chooses to say, directly followed by, “Why is everything sideways?” He then collapses ungracefully into Trahearne’s arms, dead weight.

Trahearne readjusts his grip, hefting Roza up until his feet lift off the ground and ignoring the groan of complaint it earns him. To a table first to check if he is ill and deal with any portal-induced nausea, he decides, and then most decidedly a bed.

~*~

Roza feels like absolute shit.

It is just one of those days where everything goes wrong and everyone is unbearable. Worrying friends turn into naggers, food becomes tasteless and hard to swallow, and the smallest task is suddenly monumental in scope. He is not _sick_ , however. He had told the primary nagger this, along with a few extra choice words for flavour, and had consequently been kicked into Aurene’s care.

He should not have been. He is not here to be a burden for her, and he is _certainly_ not here to be seen when he is useless garbage. There is a reason he isolates himself when he is weak. He is no one else’s problem. He is no one else’s _business_.

And now… he is in Trahearne’s home, sitting on a table like a hospital patient, and the indignance is all but gone, replaced mostly with shame. Now Trahearne will see just how terrible he can be, and will probably regret ever caring for him. What is a little sweet regard, after all, when Roza does not even have the strength to be a tolerable person? Being nice on a good day is difficult, even to the few people he holds dear—being nice on a bad day is a near impossible task.

“Shockingly enough, you _aren’t_ sick.” Trahearne breaks the sullen silence that has snuck in. The steady pressure of his hand on Roza’s chest eases, and he silently mourns it. “You most certainly need some sleep, however, and probably a meal or five. Perhaps also a bath for good measure.”

That all sounds like far too much effort. “Are you kicking me out?” Roza mutters, heart sinking. He aims for annoyed, self-conscious about how reactive he feels.

Surprise softens the tense edge of Trahearne’s features. “No, Roza,” he says, and it is in a gentler tone, so Roza must have missed by about a mile. “I am saying that I can provide all of that. Which do you want first?”

Unexpectedly, his throat closes. He swallows as unobtrusively as he can, averting his eyes. “I shouldn’t have been brought here—I do not wish to bother you. You can keep knitting your…” What had he been making? Pale Mother only knows. “… hat. I will sit here and keep quiet.”

“You will not.” Trahearne shakes his head, reaching out to curl his fingers against his cheek. “I will not squander what little time I have with you, Roza. Especially not when you need my attention.”

Roza knits his fingers together. “It is not your job to attend to me,” he says tersely. “I should not be with you when I am like this. You deserve nothing but the best parts of me.”

Trahearne slowly drops his hand. He frowns, and Roza looks away from him, nibbling the inside of his mouth. He has said the wrong thing. Is Trahearne upset? Angry? No one has been terribly pleased with Roza today. He would blame them, but he knows what he is like.

His attention is drawn back to his ex-marshal when a hand smoothes over his own, gently separating them. “Answer me something,” Trahearne requests.

Long fingers thread through his. Roza nods to show he is listening.

“Do you remember, back when we were in the Pact, when you used to disappear? You left for days at a time, sometimes for over a week. How do you think that made me feel?”

Unexpected guilt spears through Roza’s heart. He stammers, “I-I am sorry. I—”

“Please—that’s not what I meant.” Trahearne squeezes his hands hurriedly. “I worried about you; I could not help it. Even when you were less than fond of me.” He tries a playful smile, but Roza cannot even pretend to return it. “Since I was duty-bound to my station, I couldn’t leave to check on you, no matter how much I wanted to. I had no idea in what state you were going to come back, or if you were coming back at all. But now, I can finally ensure that you receive the care you need. It is important to me, Roza.”

Thorns and brambles, but Roza is an awful person for causing him all that pain. “I’m sorry,” he repeats hoarsely, bowing his head.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. Please do not blame yourself for your own wounds.” Trahearne hugs him gently, and Roza clutches at him like he is a life raft. He feels perilously close to crying, which is really quite humiliating.

“My point,” Trahearne continues, graciously ignoring the way he blinks his eyes cool, “Is that I do not care only for the ‘best parts’ of you, Roza. You are a whole person, not a series of masks.”

“I know.” Something about his wording snags in Roza’s mind. He makes a mental note to mention it to Muirne when he next sees her. “I… am trying to know. It is new.”

“Take all the time you need.” Trahearne strokes his shoulder with his thumb. “Now: bath, bed, or food?”

Oh. Roza runs each option through his head, even as his stomach sinks in dread at having to make yet another decision. This is why he dumps himself where no one can judge him for not moving all day. Now he will have to muster the energy to _plan_ , and get everything organized, and think about Trahearne, and think about—

“Do you want me to decide for you?” Trahearne asks. Roza stares at him, stunned by the offer. Decide… for him? Take the ever-building responsibility out of his tired hands for once? That is… that is new.

He gives a quick, jerky nod. Trahearne kisses him on the cheek before gently lifting him off the table and onto a chair, and he warms, not entirely certain as to why. Thorns, was Trahearne always able to maneuver him this easily? Maybe he should carry Roza around everywhere.

… And thank the Pale Tree Kas isn’t around to scrape the gist of that thought from his mind. He slumps in his chair, nodding at whatever Trahearne is saying to him but not registering it.

He does register Trahearne moving away, and looks up at him pleadingly. He gets a soft promise of, “I’ll be right back,” and another kiss, this time on his forehead. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them an eternity later, he is alone.

Oh. Trahearne has left him. Roza slithers down in his chair until he hits the ground with a painful _whump_. He wishes Eirwen were here to cud—to… pet in a reasonably aloof way. She has always been his sole companion during his moods. An animal will never judge him, or rebuke him, or blame him for not visiting them.

It is because he is so distracted that he doesn’t jump out of his bark when something soft nudges his left hand. He glances down idly, and freezes in shock.

“ _Rrrow_ ,” says the somewhat plump grey cat by his knee.

Roza stares at her with widening eyes. “ _Harley?_ ”

~*~

Harley leaves (with a mysterious a wet patch darkening her flank) after absorbing five minutes of his feelings. Roza hugs his knees and tells himself that he is clean, well-fed, and not tired in the slightest. If he thinks it at himself for long enough, he may pass out from exhaustion and make it at least partly true.

Trahearne comes back to him. “I ran you a bath,” he says, smiling with his gentle eyes. Roza’s stomach sinks. Not because it was a liberty to assume, but because he will not be able to explain to Trahearne—sweet, caring Trahearne—why he cannot muster the energy to bathe himself. It is a long, arduous cycle: preparing, stripping, sitting, cleaning, getting out, putting clothes on. Roza is so _tired_.

“Thank you,” he mumbles anyway, tightening his arms. The water will probably cool long before he touches it. “I will get to it in a moment.”

Trahearne strokes down his back; a slow, soothing pressure. “I thought I could help you,” he suggests.

Roza’s chest tightens. “To—bathe?” Is it that obvious how useless he is right now? That he cannot manage even that?

“Yes. Do you like that idea?”

And Roza cannot _lie_. “Yes,” he admits, cheeks heating in embarrassment. But Trahearne smiles at him, as if to reassure him that it doesn’t matter that much, really, and the feeling dwindles somewhat.

He makes his way upstairs, largely helped by Trahearne’s supportive arm at his back and the low, continuous murmur of reassurances in his ear. It is embarrassing—it cannot _not_ be—but the fact that no one else is here to bear witness helps. There is only Trahearne, who does not seem to mind his pitiful state.

His dear departed helps him undress, and then Roza slowly lowers himself into the large tub. He sinks in up to his neck, relishing the feeling of being encompassed by warm water. It has been far too long since he has had a bath. He is prone to taking showers—they are faster, easier, and, in his experience, far more trustworthy plumbing-wise. But his withered bark, dry from too much mountain air and not enough care, is thanking him profusely right now.

Roza closes his eyes, resting his head against the lip of the tub. Just for a moment, he tells himself. He hears the dull sound of a stopper being removed, and a sweet scent wafts to his nose.

“Let me,” murmurs Trahearne’s voice, close to his ear. Roza is too tired to protest. If Trahearne wants to help him to the point where he is taking the initiative in something like _this_ … Roza will let him.

His drowsiness gradually gets the better of him, only setting in deeper due to Trahearne’s slow, thorough touch. Roza hasn’t been so damn _relaxed_ in… his entire life, come to think of it. At some point he hits his head on the edge of the tub, and Trahearne makes a strange noise, and then he is _there_ , all of him, acting like Roza’s personal lounge chair, and when did he get into the bathtub? It does not matter, Roza decides as he readjusts his dozing position to adapt to his new backrest. What matters is that everything smells very nice, and he is incredibly comfortable.

“There we are,” Trahearne whispers finally. Roza, drooling a little on his chest, does not respond.

Five minutes later, Trahearne gives him a small shake. “Roza? I’m sorry, dearheart, but we have to get up.”

“Ngh.” He drags his head up, then carelessly drops it back down. “No. Fuck off.”

Trahearne’s torso shakes in a laugh. “I will bear your anger and drain the water. We will both be much more comfortable in the bed, I promise.”

Roza doesn’t particularly care if that is true or not. Despite the threatening nature of his unvoiced opinion, Trahearne does drain the tub, and suffers through the lethargically muffled curses it earns him with good humour.

Roza manages to put on the spare set of sleeping clothes he keeps here mostly by himself, although Trahearne does kiss him on the cheek and tell him that his shirt is on backwards. Roza flips him an unnecessarily rude gesture, but readjusts it. Trahearne kisses him on the lips as a reward, very softly. Roza suspects it is because he is trying not to laugh at him.

Then to _bed_ , oh, to bed. Roza collapses onto the mattress like a sack of griffon feathers. He hears the muffled sound of Trahearne chuckling, and then of him complaining good-naturedly that Roza is taking up all the space, which is impressive, considering he is so puny.

Roza cracks open an eye to glare at him for that. He gets a grin.

“You have so much anger for such a little thing,” Trahearne muses inanely as he maneuvers his limbs to make room for himself. “Do you ever wonder if you’re overcompensating?”

Roza tiredly slaps him on the shoulder, although it is less of an impact and more of a drag of his fingers (which then get caught on Trahearne’s ferns and stay there as he tries and fails to feebly tug them free). He has no energy left to be belligerent, however, and forgoes a retort in favour of letting his body slump into whatever position it wants to rest in.

Ten minutes later, he is more alert than he was before, albeit with a creeping headache.

“Fuck me,” he grumbles, opening his eyes.

Trahearne, face inches away, blinks at him. His lips tug upwards. “Was that a request?”

That makes Roza snort—an undignified _ghehawhaw_ into the mattress. “No,” he mumbles. “Unless it’ll help me fall sleep. I cannot. I’m far too aware of everything.”

“Ah.” Trahearne lets out one of his long, thoughtful sighs. Roza watches him through lidded eyes. He’d always thought that sigh made him seem far older than he actually was. Far wiser. Perhaps he developed the habit simply to venerate himself in the eyes of nosy saplings.

“I can spell you to sleep,” Trahearne suggests after a short time. Darkness creeps up around them, nudging at Roza’s mind with a whisper of temptation. He sucks in a breath. Mulch, that is—that is a _lot_ more power than he remembers. He suppresses the shiver that wants to creep through him. Nope, no, not right now.

“Hm… I don’t know,” he considers, weighing the option out loud.

The darkness obediently retracts, although it still hovers in the back of his senses, an undeniable presence. “No?”

 _Well…_ “Eh, fine. Nothing else will help, after all.” This Roza knows from experience. Stopping just shy of developing an alcohol problem, he has tried nearly everything to help him sleep over the years.

“I will be gentle,” Trahearne promises. He shifts closer, bringing his hand up to thumb over Roza’s lips. The darkness returns, gliding over him in an intangible caress, seeping into his mind. “Go to _sleep_ , my dear Roza.”

Roza is not terribly fond of having his own tricks used against him, but this one time, he welcomes the syrupy drowsiness that overtakes him. Thorns, is this what it feels like when _he_ magics someone to sleep? He has got to stop doing it to Laranthir.

He is unconscious within seconds. Trahearne readjusts the blankets, shifts Roza’s arms so he will be comfortable when he wakes, and finally allows himself a small, private smile.

~*~

Trahearne is cooking when Roza finally descends the stairs.

He had stayed in bed for a few hours, happy to rest in whatever strange way he is able and take comfort in his love’s presence. Roza has a tell when he is close to wakefulness: he becomes more restless in his sleep, more fidgety, as if his mind is attempting to wake up but his body is chasing what little respite it can. When Trahearne had been alive, he’d used to gently nudge Roza under again, especially if it happened in the middle of the night. This time, however, he has taken the opportunity to get up early and prepare food. He is worried about how hungry Roza might be—he mentioned he was feeling “a mite peckish” earlier, which probably meant he was starving.

Trahearne feels the subject of his thoughts’ gaze on his back, and stirs his pot so it won’t burn before glancing over his shoulder to smile. It gets returned immediately, and Roza sidles up to him.

“May I help?” he asks. At Trahearne’s surprised look, he adds, “Laranthir has been teaching me how to be at least moderately competent in the kitchen. I also took a class, briefly. Very briefly. The instructor mysteriously quit.”

“Ah. A sensible and certainly not suspicious explanation.” Trahearne gestures with his wooden—he thinks it is wood, even if it is blue—spoon to the legumes sitting on the counter. “You can slice those. I’ll add them in later.”

Roza dutifully settles in behind him, hovering over the miscellaneous knives Trahearne has traded book tea for and picking up the wrong one before getting to work. Trahearne watches him for a few seconds to make sure he isn’t in danger of cutting his fingers off, and when he sees him slicing cleanly, if a bit slowly, turns back to his pot.

“How are you feeling?” He tries his best not to let his voice dip into that low, furtive tone Roza dislikes so greatly. But he _is_ concerned, and he is fully prepared to sit his commander down on the sofa and order him to save his strength if he needs to.

“How about this: You answer my question, and I will answer yours.” Roza’s voice is too poised, too arch. He is uncertain about something. Or perhaps insecure? It is hard to tell.

“Very well. Go ahead.” Trahearne matches his tone, if only to put him at ease.

“Excellent. So you aren’t trying to poison me again, are you? I would like to know how experimental all of the ingredients in this kitchen are.”

That makes Trahearne pause to laugh. “No, dearheart,” he reassures. “I’ve made this before. I’ve been able to do some foraging, I’ll have you know, and I can… almost certainly guarantee this won’t hurt you. Most likely.”

“Pale Mother.” Roza echoes his laugh, although it is with a faint blush. He isn’t used to endearments yet; he still gets a shy, startled look in his eyes whenever Trahearne calls him _dearheart_ , or _my love_. The terms felt rusty on his tongue at first, admittedly, but every sweet word is a confirmation, and he wants Roza to know he is deserving of them. Of what they mean.

“Fine, I will accept that,” Roza concedes. He smiles then, haltingly, and Trahearne knows his mind has turned to his own answer.

“I… am not at peak performance today.” Roza enunciates each word carefully. “Mentally. Um.”

He glances down. “Thank you for helping me, Trahearne. I know you are going to protest, but no, you really do not have to.”

“I know I don’t have to.” Trahearne cuts the heat to the pot and turns around, leaning against the stove. Roza is making very slow progress on his task. “But I also know that I am one of the very few people you would even consider going to for help, Roza. I know it is difficult for you. I know it has taken you years to get to this point. And though it has gotten worse at times, you have stayed strong and persevered through it all. So I want _you_ to know that I am very proud of you, and even if you sometimes think of yourself as a burden, I view you as nothing less than the bravest, most resilient person I know.”

Roza puts his knife down, from the looks of it to stop himself from dropping it. “Mulch, I’m going to—don’t act like that right now. I’ve been so close to crying all day. It’s humiliating.” He sniffs dryly, tilting his head up and wiping the edges of his eyes with his fingertips. “Brambles, Trahearne.”

Trahearne opens his arms, and Roza steps into them gratefully, embracing him in silence. He does not shake, but he does squeeze tightly, which is rare.

He lets go after too short a time. “You, ah, you do not mind how much the balance tips from my weight?”

“There is no balancing to be done. That is not how these things work.” Trahearne traces over the ridges of one of Roza’s branches, and he leans into the touch. “You are a dear friend of mine. I offered to help you not out of obligation, but because I wanted to take care of you. And if I ever need help and you cannot provide it directly—don’t look at me like that, Roza—if you _cannot_ , that is not on you. Ah… what was it you said to me once, a long time ago? It is not about helping someone fight their battle only so they will help you fight yours.”

Roza squints at him, clearly fishing through his memories to find the one Trahearne is referring to. When he does, he lets out a huff of disbelief.

“Pale Mother, you remember that? All I remember was screaming at you like a bloody harpy.”

His cheek twinges in discomfort. Trahearne gently presses a hand to it. “Do not dwell overmuch on the past. We have all done things we regret. Besides, you were a very young, hurting harpy. Your wisdom from then has matured alongside you.”

Roza nods absently, gears turning behind his eyes. Trahearne lets him process whatever he needs to, waiting until he returns to the present.

“Do you think you can finish with the vegetables, or shall I take over?” he asks when Roza lightly squeezes his hand a moment later.

“I can finish them.” Roza’s back straightens. He faces the cutting board with a confident air, breaking it to quirk an apologetic smile. “But… after that I think I am done.”

Trahearne ducks down to kiss the base of his branches. “Thank you for your help.”

“… My _help_. You’re so stupid,” Roza mutters in a flustered undertone. Trahearne graciously pretends not to hear him.

He turns the stove on once more, now that he can watch it to ensure the kitchen doesn’t burn down. There is a reason he is making stew—it requires minimum effort both to tend to and consume. There had been a time long ago, when Trahearne had been in the phase of simultaneously attempting to court Roza and deny that they had an anomalous relationship (and by the Pale Tree, he cringes to think back on _that_ now) when he had taken his commander out to dinner at a nice outlet in the Grove. Roza had stared at the food with the most uncomfortably perplexed expression he’d ever seen, and then had quietly asked for a fork. Considering his state today, stew is probably a good idea.

Roza announces he is done by means of a relieved sigh. Trahearne checks his work and finds remarkably thinly-sliced rows of what he has mentally nicknamed Edible Number Four.

“Very well done,” he praises, kissing the rising flush on Roza’s cheek. “Thank you again.”

“Do you need more help?” Roza mumbles, as if he doesn’t look newly exhausted.

“I’m almost done, actually. Go lie down on the sofa and get some rest. I’ll call you when it’s finished.”

He changes the request into an order at the last moment, since he’s developed something of a hunch during these past few weeks. From the way Roza licks his lips and nods dumbly before trailing out of the room, he is onto something.

They will have to discuss it later. Not at a time like this, when Roza has barely anything left of himself. Trahearne scrapes Edible Number Four into his pot, and begins humming an old tune to himself.

Ten minutes later finds him craning his neck into doorways, searching for Roza. He finds him on the nearest sofa, head lolled back and all four of his limbs wrapped around a cushion. A closer look reveals Harley nestled snugly in between it and him.

“Roza.” Trahearne shakes him gently. “Are you asleep? Eat some food for me, and then you can go back to bed.”

Roza cracks an eye open. “’m awake.”

“ _Hhrrr,”_ says Harley. 

Roza convinces him to bring the stew to the sofa, which is probably not the best idea, since Trahearne hasn’t found anything resembling cleaning supplies in the Mists yet. But Roza entangling their legs together and leaning into him with a contented sigh like he does is worth the risk of a stain or two. Harley screaming for food is not ( _How is she even hungry?_ Trahearne bemoans internally), but he’s long since learned to take the good with the bad.

“Your _friend_ ,” Roza says when he has finished his large bowl—he’d practically inhaled it, which Trahearne finds incredibly concerning, despite the fact that it was rather good, if he does say so himself—and Trahearne is trying to both finish his smaller one and push his cat away.

“Mm?” Harley manages to snatch a bite of Edible Number Two and run away with it. Thorns.

“You called me your _friend_ ,” Roza says.

Trahearne thinks. “I said ‘dear friend,’” he defends.

Roza rolls his eyes. Trahearne grins loosely, and tilts his bowl towards him so he can finish the rest of it.

He does. “I don’t take baths with my friends,” he mumbles after handing his dishes to Trahearne and slumping against him.

Trahearne considers. “It’s actually not that un—”

“If you’re about to say ‘every sylvari in existence does that!’ I swear to Mother, Trahearne. I’m sure they all eat and sleep together, too. Are we going to join a platonic orgy next, is that what you’re saying? Did you have those with all your other firstborn _friends_ when you first popped out?”

Trahearne is not going to honestly answer that question. “Alright, point taken,” he chuckles. “If you will take another nap for me, my _dear romantic_ love, I will read you something very special that I’ve been working on for some time.”

After a beat, Roza lifts his head to peer at him askance. “Are you… trying to bribe me with _poetry_ you wrote?” he asks, and then full-on laughs, thready but genuine.

Trahearne is a little offended. “Hey—it is very serious poetry!” he protests over Roza’s throaty laughter. “Really! I thought you would appreciate it.”

“Oh, twisting branches, Trahearne.” Roza’s voice is heavy with affection. “You’re such a…”

He shakes his head and resettles against Trahearne’s side with a secretive smile, closing his eyes. Trahearne taps his shoulder.

“I’m such a _what?_ ”

No answer. Roza heaves a deep, dramatic breath, tacking on a snore at the end. He doesn’t even snore when he _actually_ sleeps.

“Well… back at you,” Trahearne mutters, at a loss for a better comeback. Honestly. He is a _scholar_. He is a very talented, well-educated poet. He knows how to capture people’s heart within a hundred written words. He is certain Roza will like his poem.

And he does, although not for any of those reasons.

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> no song for this one but your feel-good song of choice! :p 
> 
> so do you guys like the more fluffy vibe? i won't often write it for roza, but i think he deserves it after all this time, haha. ngl some of you persuaded me to let him be happy 😔


End file.
